Volcano Day
by Aromene
Summary: August 24, 79AD – the best con in history is about to go assbackwards and he might just rethink his career choice, again.


**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

**AN: Because I had to do it before the next season starts and throws the whole thing out of the water.**

**To Kate, because she's been my rock these past few months. There would be many fewer stories if not for her.**

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August 24th – Just before 10am

His first career change happened the day he woke up and realized he couldn't remember anything of the last two years. He was 3000 years and four systems away before the Time Agency realized it.

He's been here before. Three years ago and what feels like another lifetime. He had a different name then. He almost always does. He really shouldn't have returned, but as places go this one takes the cake. There's no way this can go wrong.

Those are the type of cons he likes best. The ones with no chance of failure.

But now he has three hours left and he's running out of time. Which is irony at its best, really, but he can't afford to make another jump. He's having one hell of a time avoiding his previous self as it is.

His meeting with the potential buyers is scheduled for two hours before mid-day. The weapon which he has managed to locate, and which is very definitely broken, is hidden so well it looks like nothing more than a hunk of rock at the base of the mountain. It'll be buried under two metres of ash before they even realize they've been conned. Or so he hopes. It's better than the last idea he came up with, which he walked away from empty handed.

He needs to get going though if he's to make it there on time.

He's never been a rider, or at least a good one. Never really saw the need to learn properly. Horses aren't exactly plentiful in the 51st century. But he can get by alright. It's not far, at least; he's only headed to the outskirts of Herculaneum. This is not a meeting he wants done in public. Mostly because the sight of his _investors_ would send a panic through the town long before the volcano goes bang.

He walks the horse through the back streets, keeping out of the main stream of traffic until he reaches the north gate. He's not the only one coming and going and so his presence isn't even recognized as he leaves. He likes it best that way. There's an abandoned workshop ten minutes from the gate at an easy walk and he works his way along the road until he can cut across the field towards it. He's early, which was the intention, but he won't have long to wait. The Ipicans are always punctual, for which he is thankful, because it makes pulling off any job on a time constraint easier.

The interior of the workshop is dim and dusty and he pulls a few chairs from the debris scattered around the floor. It'll soon be covered under ten feet of ash and never found again. Really, volcanic eruptions are the best way to cover one's tracks.

He hears motion outside a split second before an alien darkens the doorway. He hasn't met these buyers before, and he's been betting on the fact that the last time he coned an Ipican the being never made it home to tattle on him. And there doesn't seem to be any excessive wariness about the figure that he can discern. He allows himself a brief breath of relief.

Another figure follows the first one in and he motions towards the chairs. The Ipican's are tall, gangly creatures and it's not easy for them to fold their bodies enough to fit into a chair meant for a Roman of barely five feet. But they manage it with more grace than he suspected. They haggle back and forth for a full ten minutes. They message he sent was clear enough and even included a starting price. But he knows it was too high, and the Ipicans are clearly smart enough to know what a weapon such as he is offering would go for on the universal black market.

He is surprised they have not asked to see it, but then they would know that it would be too big for him to move on his own. He's just hoping he can get the payment out of them before they discover they've been conned.

They settled on an amount that he's mostly happy with. He always wants more, of course, but it's enough not to make the gig seem suspicious. Or more suspicious than it already is. But the Ipicans are an amazingly trusting race, so long as nothing strikes them as odd in their dealings.

The Ipican in charge hands over a bag and he peaks inside to check it's real money before weighing it in his hand. Yep, feels about right. The bag disappears into his robes and then he leads them outside into the blaring sunshine. It's less than four miles to where he has left the weapon and he leaves the horse behind because he has no need of it now. Someone will find it. Horses are still enough of a prized commodity here.

The Ipicans seem to glide across the ground rather than walk. It's intriguing to see; after all of his travels he's still fascinated by how different other species can be. He glances upwards towards Vesuvius which is looming above them, beautiful and horrible because he knows what's coming. Less than ninety minutes now before the first eruption starts and darkens the sky with a plum of ash and sand.

There is less than thirty minutes left by the time he leads them to the base of a cliff at the edge of the mountain where a swath of cloth covers something large. He's made sure that the weapon will light up enough to make them think it works, but he knows the control mechanism, which is irreplaceable with the technology the Ipicans have, is missing. Which makes it nothing more than a useless hunk of metal that makes a high pitched noise and flashes coloured lights.

The second of the two aliens pulls the tarp off and pokes around on the control pad until the lights flash on and the sound starts up. He yells at them to stop, putting all the terror behind it he can to make it sound like they have just stupidly active the destruct mechanism. The alien jumps back and he slams his hand down on the power button. The silence is almost deafening.

The Ipicans seem less than pleased. Apparently they think such weapons should come with instruction manuals attached. And so he finds himself taking up the precious minutes that are disappearing before the eruption trying to think up some convoluted set of buttons to press to activate a weapon that won't actually activate. They make him show them three times, and he manages through sheer luck to remember the sequence he imputed the first time. At the end he presses the button he knows will make the pretty lights and noise start up again, except this time there is nothing. He stabs at it again. The consol remains dead. The Ipicans are whispering to each other in their native tongue and he doesn't need to understand a word of it to know they are less than amused. He fumbles around with the controls again, but he doesn't really know what he's doing, which was rather the point in the first place. The weapon is useless so he doesn't _need_ to know how it works.

He surreptitiously glances at his watch and notices that in a few minutes' time standing exactly where they are is going to be a very, very bad idea.

They aren't happy. They may be a trusting race, but he knows that they're one you don't piss off except at your peril. And it was all going so well. He fumbles the bag out of his robes and tosses it towards the beings. But having their money back doesn't seem to satisfy the fact that they realize they have just been conned.

The ground rocks beneath his feet and he can _feel_ the pressure around him as Vesuvius sends up its first shock of ash and dirt into the heavens. The distraction is enough to throw down his defences for a moment and before he's managed to get to his feet again, one of the Ipicans has him by the back of his robes and the other is reaching for the transporter wrapped around his wrist and everything is just very, very wrong.

He wrenches sideways just as another quake throws the ground for a loop and he's scrambling for his own vortex manipulator. He doesn't even pretend to think where he's going as long as it is far away from the volcano that is erupting under his feet and the two Ipicans that by now will probably be quite happy to kill him.

The world dissolves under him and he's left gasping on the ground. The solid, unmoving ground, thankfully. When he's regained his breath and his head has stopped pounding in time with his racing heart he glances around.

So he should have been more specific when he thought the only requirement was 'no volcano'.

Because the sandstorm bearing down on him across the massive desert that he is kneeling in is just so much better.

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Arómenë © 2007


End file.
